


The Most Sublime Enjoyment

by Miaou Jones (miaoujones)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Forgiveness, Friendship, Genderbending, Historical, Love, Post-WWII, Post-War, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-12
Updated: 2011-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-24 13:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/pseuds/Miaou%20Jones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In U.S.-occupied post-war Japan, two nations come to understand the poet Johann Kaspar Lavater: "He who cannot forgive a trespass of malice to his enemy has never yet tasted the most sublime enjoyment of love."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Sublime Enjoyment

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [lksugui](http://lksugui.livejournal.com/), for [APH History Swap 2011](http://aph_historyswap.livejournal.com).

You stand in the doorway the first time you come to see me after—after it has happened. You do not know I am conscious and I do not reveal myself. To my surprise, the one you sent to me does not reveal me to you, either; he only touches my hand as he greets you, to let me know you are here.

Even if he had not, I would have known it was you.

You do not speak for some time, though I know you are still there for I hear you breathing. Then your voice comes to me from the doorway, though your words are addressed to him: "Take care of her, Mac. Help her..." I wait to hear what you wish him to help me do, but you do not say more.

Though I do not know your man MacArthur well myself, I know enough of him to believe that while he will carry out your commands even when he does not agree with them, he will never do so blindly, without his own understanding. And so when he accepts your directive, I know that he must understand whatever it is you have not said, as well as what you have.

Your clothes rustle as you turn to go. I wonder if you are in full dress uniform or if you have come in something more casual. It is important to me to know what you think of me, how you regard me at this moment; but it is not important enough that I can bring myself to open my eyes.

"Where are you going?" your man MacArthur asks.

You do not answer right away. You have a reputation for not always thinking out your actions or words in advance, and it would be easy to think you may not know where you are going or what you mean to do now. Too easy, and I have learned of late that very little about you is easy; this is especially so, the easier you seem. I am not surprised to hear the determination in your voice when you say now, "I don't want anyone else touching her. I'm going to make sure they don't."

I think I am happy that you wish to protect me from the touch of others, but I am also uneasy that you may wish to touch me more yourself.

 

The next time you come to see me, I cannot disguise that I am awake. In truth, I do not know what I would have chosen if the choice had been mine; but it is not, and so I bow my head in acknowledgment.

MacArthur stands when you enter the room. He has been with me since last you came, taking care of me as you wished and he promised; the spoon he has been feeding me with just now is still in his hand as he salutes you with the other. He has kept his word—and you have kept yours. The intrusions have stopped. No one else has come for me; only you.

"At ease," you say.

It is a directive for him, not for me. I have no obligation to ease in your presence, and so I do not.

"May I?" You gesture at the spoon. I am uncertain which of us you are addressing. Your words must be meant for your man; just as I have no obligation to ease around you, you have none to request my permission, and so why would you?

Though he also does not need my permission, MacArthur looks at me. I think he must hand you the spoon no matter my response; and I think, too, that he knows I know this. He is not always courteous, your man MacArthur, and so the courtesies he chooses are all the more to be acknowledged; I honor this one with a nod, eyes lowered.

Spoon in hand, you sit in the chair beside my bed. Your hand cupped under the bowl of the spoon to catch any spillage, you bring a mouthful of broth to my lips and let me drink; slowly you pour in nourishment, spoonful by spoonful, spreading in me a warmth I am grateful for, one infinitely gentler than the heat that has so recently ravaged my skin, boiled my blood, scorched my very bones; a heat that still radiates darkly within me.

 

I awaken to your presence the next time you visit me. MacArthur is not here; it is only you and me. You are sitting by my bed once again but there is no spoon in your hand this time. You are holding something, though, and you are focused so intently, your attention so entirely occupied by it, that I think you do not realize I am awake. I steal this opportunity to study you: but it is in vain, your face overfull with emotions so that I cannot sort through them all, I cannot read you.

Thinking to find a clue in whatever is holding you in such fascination, I turn my gaze to your hand. Moments go by as I look at what you are holding, before I recognize myself with a shock: it is my hair. Strands of my hair, destroyed at the roots, fallen dead from me at your touch.

This shock is nothing to the realization that washes through me then, that you have been touching me, without my knowledge or permission. I remind myself that you do not need permission. I am fortunate that you have offered me what you have, that you have protected me and did not let your allies do to me what they wished, what all of you did to the one whose side I had chosen.

Still, I do not like to see myself in your hands like this. I close my eyes before you know I have been awake.

 

"I didn't know that you're—" you say on this visit. There is a helplessness in your gesture as you indicate me, my body. "You know," you say, and I think I do know, but I wait to see what you will say. "Uh, I didn't know that you're a girl."

I smile. These are among the words I have been waiting for you to say to me. "It is not known by many." It was not known before, that is; and since I think you have been protecting this secret for reasons of your own, I believe it is still not known.

It is pleasant to smile again and so I almost do not speak my next words, but it is important to me to know: "Would you have made different choices, if you had known?"

Your brow furrows as it always does when you are devoting yourself to thought. Your eyes flicker as your thoughts vie for your attention; you close your eyes, as if you must read these thoughts in the dark.

You do not look at me when your eyes come open again. "No," you say. And now you turn to me. "Not for that."

It is a good answer. I smile at you.

It catches you off-guard, my smile. But then you smile, too. "What should I call you?"

"Kiku is a suitable name for both a man and a woman," I tell you.

Your expression tells me that, although you accept this answer, it does not please you.

"If you wish," I say after some thought, "you may call me Sakura."

Your eyes light up with recognition. "Like the flower!" You turn and point through the window at the trees in bloom. Gazing out, you say, "Beautiful."

 

As the days and weeks and months pass, you visit me less frequently, though more often than I think I deserve, considering the new position you have achieved on the stage of the world. We have begun to converse, you and I, though there are also days when you come and say nothing. You still have not said the words I know are on your mind.

Today is one of the days without conversation. You stand at the west-facing window, looking out at something I cannot see; somehow I do not think it is cherry blossom trees that occupy your gaze this time. You look unlike yourself—no, you look like the you that you have become. As much as I have come to enjoy your company, the small gifts of "chewing gum" and "funnies" you bring to share with me, I think perhaps you have needs to devote yourself elsewhere, your home or otherwise.

You do not turn from the window when I suggest this. "No," you say, looking out westward. "Everything is here."

I understand: he is out there, the one who was once your ally though you were not his comrade. The divide between you is widening; and that division is bringing you closer than ever, even as it separates you. He is out there, just across the water, and so you must be here, too.

(Years from now, I will come to see that while I understood true, I did not understand all; I did not know that I was and am part of your "everything." Some day I will know this; but not today.)

 

Petals are fluttering down like the softest, sweetest snow.

Beside me, you make a sound that wordlessly requests attention, so I tip my face down from the petal snow to look at you:

You are smiling open-mouthed, a petal caught delicately on the tip of your tongue.

Before I can acknowledge your skill and luck, your tongue retreats back into your mouth; I see you swallow.

"Oh, crap," you say, color rising to your cheeks, your smile fading. "I probably wasn't supposed to do that, was I?"

I cover my smile with my hand.

When I glance at you again, you have turned your face up once more, your mouth closed. I do the same.

Then sensing movement, I turn and find your hand hovering by my face. "Oh," you say when our eyes meet. "They're in your hair. I was just going to brush them out for you..." I wait for you to do so, but your hand curls in on itself.

"Ah!" It is difficult to smile at the memories brought up when I understand your reluctance, but I smile at you nevertheless. "It's all right," I tell you, brushing my own fingers through my hair, bringing them away with only the petals. "My hair will not come out now."

Though your mouth is empty, you swallow as hard as when the petal was on your tongue. Then you reach for me, watching my face. My smile comes easier and I lower my eyes as your fingers alight, stroking softly through my hair. It is new to me, to be touched by you like this; to be touched by anyone so openly. I find I do not entirely dislike it, and I smile more.

"Hey!" you say suddenly, and I turn to you as your hand falls from me. "I brought something new today." You reach into the pocket of the jacket you have taken to wearing everywhere, no matter the occasion or circumstance or propriety. You pull your hand out and unfold it, your smile widening as you show me the new treasure.

"Alfred," I say carefully, not wishing to offend you, "I have seen a baseball before."

"Oh, right," you say. You look disappointed for a second, two seconds—and then your smile bounces back: "But you've never played catch with me, right?"

I acknowledge it, and before I know it, you have taken my hand and pulled me to my feet. You jog away, not a far distance, then turn and, holding the ball aloft, call out, "Ready?"

I nod, holding my hands in the proper position. Your aim is perfect; I catch the ball without trying.

People, mostly mine and some of yours, are watching us and this is what they see: an American and a Japanese playing together; a man and a woman playing equally.

You are changing me. I am still myself, but I cannot deny that you are changing me.

I do not like it wholly...

But neither do I entirely dislike it.

 

"So this is it," you say.

"Yes," I agree.

After nearly seven years, you are returning home: you are returning me fully to myself.

Through the years, you have said many, many words to me. Some I have accepted, some I have only pretended to, but I have listened to all of them. I have heard all the words you have said to me.

And I have heard the words you have not.

They are there, those words. They are always there, sometimes faint and sometimes strong, but never spoken.

They will not be spoken now. This is what you tell me:

"I don't trust apologies," you say. "I don't trust anyone who says, 'I'm sorry.' It's too easy to say and not to mean. So. I'm not going to say that."

You are not smiling now but you often do when a smile is not appropriate, and somehow I want someone to smile inappropriately at this moment—so since you will not smile, I do.

I can see that my smile confuses you, and I think the way I feel now must be the way you feel when you smile inappropriately and others look at you: there is a strange power in smiling like this.

I soften my smile for you. "Alfred, are you not fond of saying that actions speak louder than words?"

You nod.

"So then," I say.

Your head tilts as you look at me, the furrow of thought upon your brow, a riot of emotion in your eyes.

The riot calms and your eyes are only full, your brow smooth. "So then," you say. "Are we friends?"

I tell you the simple version: "Yes."

You nod. Then: "Are you going to try to destroy me someday?"

I think you are thinking of someone else, of all the someone elses you've counted a friend, only to fight bitterly with them.

And, too, you are thinking of me; of us.

I dare to touch your face. You dare to let me.

"If I ever destroy you," I tell you, "it will only be to build you up again."

We look at one another.

It is a good answer, your blossoming smile tells me.

It is a promise, my smile tells you in return.

**Author's Note:**

> * "Mac" and "your man MacArthur" — General Douglas MacArthur, appointed Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers (SCAP), in charge of supervising the post-war occupation of Japan.
> * "Full dress uniform or something more casual" — on his first meeting with Emperor Hirohito after Japan's surrender, MacArthur wore his field uniform instead of his dress uniform; this was considered a slight to Japan, either a faux pas (if MacArthur was unaware of the significance) or an assertion of power.
> * "I don't want anyone else touching her" and "you have protected me and did not let your allies do to me what they wished, what all of you did to the one whose side I had chosen." — the original plans for post-war Japan called for a division among the Allied Powers similar to that in Germany, but under the final plan the SCAP (which, in practice, was mostly the U.S.) was given direct control over the main and surrounding islands. I'm sure historical reasoning is not nearly as romantic as the notion here, but I hope I may be forgiven the indulgence for fic purposes.
> * Spoonfeeding the broth — one of the first programs MacArthur set up upon his arrival in Japan was a food distribution network.
> * "Sakura" — the request asked for genderflipped Japan, so I looked up what the fandom calls her; this was the prettiest of the options that came up.
> * Chewing gum and comic strips ("funnies") were among the little things introduced to post-war Japan by America. It's a common misconception that baseball was introduced to Japan during this period, but in fact they'd been playing it since the end of the 19th century; the sport did experience a post-war revival, though.
> * Public displays of affection were another cultural introduction (as when Alfred touches Sakura intimately under the cherry blossom trees).
> * "A man and a woman playing together equally" — among other things, Japan's 1947 Constitution (enacted under the U.S. occupation) enfranchised women for the first time and guaranteed them fundamental human rights.
> * The apology—oh god, I don't know why the U.S. wouldn't apologize for the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki! I looked at a lot of bombing-related America/Japan fanart while working on this, and I just couldn't end the fic without some sort of acknowledgement. This is the best I could do. orz


End file.
